[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace The beast arched a brow at the obvious, sarcastic, facetious designation, casually glancing down at his clothing, shrugging. They’d never signified anything but a working man’s distinction: meant for traversing, hunting, mauling, fighting, and pummeling; anything else wouldn’t have suited. A bright, ostentatious glamor wasn’t him (especially if a majority of the time he deigned to cloak himself amongst shadows), nor were anything substantial or expensive – with the amount of garb and garments he ruined (bloodied, ripped, torn), it would’ve been wasteful anyway. Amalia had managed to wrangle him into some formal pieces for weddings - and that mode of thought instantly stung, and he scraped away from it quickly. “Not everyone can have your flair,” was a grumbling remark, smirk indented on the corners of his mouth, meant to be taken however Adam wished. But the gun was more of a conversation piece – half-tempted as he was to play around with it just to wind Adam up, just to irritate and vex, but the General knew better than to utilize a foreign, unknown weapon as a toy. He handled it with great care, though not as much reverence and worship as he might bestow upon a favored sword, but understood the model carried a great potential for menace and malice amongst its metal columns. “I have not. Sunjata mentioned you had one.” They didn’t have such mechanisms in his fluid line of histories: more apt to scale with arrows, with catapults, with blades, with fury. He was curious about how it functioned though, considered the capabilities, how to better arm his militia. “Go ahead,” handing it back over, gaze quietly intrigued.

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